Shattered Mirror

I'm standing in a slaughterhouse where the cattle are begging to become hamburgers. I have a right to be jumpy.

Skin like ivory, perfect; A goddess, she must be. Slender fingers, unadorned; beautiful simplicity. A single teardrop; when did it fall? Could this goddess be mortal, after all?

Christopher . . . are these from you?” she asked at lunch, careful to make her tone light as she placed the two picture-poems on the table. Christopher’s eyes fell to them, and he smiled. “Yes.” He didn’t ask if she liked them, and he didn’t seem embarrassed. Sarah was flustered, and somewhat surprised by Christopher’s easy confidence. Even so, her natural suspicion surfaced. “Why?” “Because,” he answered seriously, “you make a good subject. Your hair, for one, is like a shimmering waterfall. It’s so fair that it catches the light. It makes you seem like you have a halo about you. And your eyes—they’re such a pure color, not washed out at all, deep as the ocean. And your expression . . . intense and yet somehow detached, as if you see more of the world than the rest of us.” Flustered, she could think of no way to respond. Did he just say this stuff from the top of his head? Only her strict Vida control kept her from blushing. Meanwhile Nissa entered the cafeteria. She started to sit, then glanced from the pictures, to Christopher, to Sarah. “Should I go somewhere else?” Christopher nodded to a chair, answering easily, “Sit down. We aren’t exchanging dark secrets—yet.” Nissa flashed a teasing look to her brother as she took a seat. “As his sister, I feel the need to inform you, Sarah, that Christopher has been talking about you incessantly.” Christopher smiled, unembarrassed. “I suppose I might have been.’ “Especially your eyes—he never shuts up about your eyes,” Nissa confided, and this time Christopher shrugged. “They’re beautiful,” he said casually. “Beauty should be looked at, not ignored. I try to capture it on paper, but that’s really impossible with eyes, because they have a life no still portrait can capture.” Sarah’s voice was tied up so tightly she thought she might be able to speak again sometime next year. No one had ever talked about her—or to her—with such admiration.

Yet he wasn’t doing anything threatening at the moment. Instead, he was regarding her with curiosity. “Sarah Vida, I presume?” he inquired, voice civil. “Making sure introductions are out of the way before we fight?” she asked flippantly.

Nikolas. If it scarred, she was going to be really annoyed. “Is your control really this good, or are you a secret masochist?” Nikolas asked as he cut the tail of the S, a jagged underline. “Is this a ritual thing, or are you just a sadist?” she returned, impatient. Though he was enjoying his busywork, he wasn’t focused enough for Sarah to act. “Both,” he answered, laughing, as he turned to the other arm. “You can ask me to stop any time now.” She understood what he really meant--You can break down and beg. “Or must I continue?” “Hurry up, would you?” She yawned. “I have to get to the drugstore before it closes. We’re out of Band-Aids at my house.